


The Girl Who Waited and the Boy Who Waited Longer

by hisorako



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Community: wholockians, F/M, Pondlock, Wholock, shermelia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisorako/pseuds/hisorako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Amy met Rory and Mels, she had 2 friends: the Doctor - and Sherlock Holmes. When he moves away, their lives branch apart. Years later, in Manhattan, Rory is sent back in time after Amy gets in the TARDIS, and the Doctor, to spare her the pain, erases her memory of him. When she gets home and has a funny feeling, who does she go to but Sherlock? Sherlock and John race to solve the mystery of Rory's disappearance, and, apparent erasure from history as they know it. While the duo work to solve her case and restore her life, Amy lives with them and helps John to blog about their other mysteries. But, as Amy and Sherlock get closer together, will love blossom for the two? Pondlock, Shermelia.</p><p>Present time: The second series of Sherlock, preferably after A Scandal in Belgravia (and before The Reichenbach Fall).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl Who Waited and the Boy Who Waited Longer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first Dr Who fic and my first Sherlock fic. Before you ask, John and the familiar cast are going to be featured heavily in the later chapters, so worry not! To be set (in present time) in the second series of Sherlock, preferably after A Scandal in Belgravia (and before The Reichenbach Fall).
> 
> Dedicated to Rachanja, fellow Whovian and best friend.
> 
> Also dedicated to Amélie, a TARDIS-blue Wholockian.

“Maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there's a tomorrow. Maybe for you there's one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it.

But for some of us there's only today. And the truth is, you never really know.”

\- Lauren Oliver, _Before I Fall_

 

**1996, Leadworth, England**

 

This is the story of a girl who waited a long, long time. It wasn’t that she was desperately in love or in some sort of trouble. It was a little of that, but there was much more to her. She had an aunt but no mother or father. She was a Scottish girl stranded in Leadworth, England. She was an adventure waiting to happen.

 

Her name was Amelia Pond, a name from a fairy tale. And she was waiting for her Raggedy Doctor.

 

When she was seven years-old, he fell into her life. With his magic time-travelling box, he had surprised her. But not scared her. Nothing scared her - nothing, since the crack in the wall. From the crack in the wall, she heard voices, words that seeped into her darkest nightmares. She had fixed the Doctor supper: not apples, nor beans, nor bacon, but fish fingers and custard. Then, he had asked about the crack in the wall, as if he had known about it all along.

 

Each night, Aunt Sharon told her that there were no such things as voices coming from cracks, that adults never heard such a thing and to grow up. But he had heard them. The voices, they spoke to him. The crack had opened to a giant eye that gave him a message. He told her she was in great danger. But he had to go before he could do a thing about it. He told her he would be five minutes. Amelia waited the whole night. But he never came back.

 

* * *

 

It was a bright summer day, an Augusty sort of day when Amelia met him. Not her Raggedy Doctor, mind you. It was her other best friend. She was playing in the garden when he came into her life.

 

He had scoured every street in the village of Leadworth, looking for something interesting to do. Every street but this one. He turned onto the dirt road and continued down, hoping there would be somewhere with peace and quiet at the end. In such a small place, there was a constant barrage of people who were obsessed with pleasantries and making conversation. Which was fine, really - for them. He required something a bit different, and he was certainly not about to run home to Mycroft and get told off for being stupid.

 

The first thing he noticed was how worn the path was. Tire treads indicated twice daily passage, and likely more, by the depth and the dust of the tracks. Whatever lay ahead, it certainly wouldn’t be deserted. But perhaps there was no one there. He couldn’t hear the sound of an engine, and it was midday. No one would be home.

 

He forged on until he came to a house and front garden. The large home was white-washed, but it must have been a long time ago, because it was covered with a sickly layer of green algae. It may have looked old, but it was obviously not abandoned; there was a girl sitting on her coat in the front garden.

 

She looked up immediately, and he cursed himself for wearing his trainers and walking so loudly. “Hello,” she said. Simple and unassuming.

 

“Hello.” He paused and nodded at the Scottish girl, as her accent indicated. He was never really sure what to do with people.

 

She eyed him cautiously. “Do you want to play?”

 

He shrugged. He never cared for other children, but they could be alright - when they weren’t in his way. “OK.”

 

“You know, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She gazed straight at him. “The others don’t. They call me weird and say they don’t like the way I speak.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s not like I asked to be here anyways.”

 

A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Most of us don’t,” he replied as he sat down beside her. “What exactly brings you to this part of England?”

 

The girl tugged at the grass, her fingers pulling the stalks out and shredding them. She was thoughtful, he noted. “My aunt. She’s the one who decided to move here.” She winced, her nose wrinkling. “I don’t like her very much.”

 

“Do you have a lot of friends?” he asked without thinking. He wasn’t sure what had made him say that. He should have known that a bullied girl like her wouldn’t have very many of those.

 

“One.” She shook her head, sending her orange-red locks swinging. “His name’s the Doctor, and he’s a grown-up, only not really. He likes fish fingers and custard and hears voices in the crack in the wall.”

 

“Crack in the wall?” he asked, clearly intrigued. The house behind her was certainly not new, but, beyond the bad exterior, it certainly didn’t appear to be falling into disuse. Through the windows, he glimpsed the shadowy shapes of tables, chairs, and sofas. For two people, it was very large - but someone had obviously been taking care of the interior.

 

“There was a crack. In my bedroom wall. Sometimes, I heard voices coming from it. There’s a great big eyeball behind the whole thing, and it’s looking for a ‘Prisoner Zero’. The Doctor said he’ll take care of it when he comes back.” She frowned. “But he never came back.”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Amelia Pond.” She smiled a little, as if it was a private joke. The thought made him almost want to laugh. A name as a joke? Ridiculous! "And you?"

 

"Sherlock Holmes." He offered her a hand. He didn’t dislike this girl. She certainly had some flair (though not as much as he) and wasn’t a boring weakling like the other children.

 

"No thanks." Amelia pushed herself up off the ground. She was strong-willed for a girl who could only be less than nine and more than six years-old. "So what do you want to do?"

 

"Check out what's down there." He pointed. "Have you been there?"

 

"No." Her grin turned mischievous, and the glint in her eyes should have warned him that she was up to no good. “Race you there, Sherly!”

 

And then she was flying, her feet seeming to barely scrape the ground. Her long hair whipped as she ran.

 

“Hold on!” Sherlock gave chase, his long legs pumping as he made up the decent lead she had on him. “That’s not fair!”

 

“Life’s not fair!” Amelia shouted back. She sped up, throwing her head down as she bounded down the dirt road and toward the forest.

 

* * *

They jogged in silence for a while. She was completely focused on winning the race, and he was always trying to catch up. Every now and then, he would get a footfall ahead of her. But she would always dart away, deeper and deeper into the wood.

 

He stopped short when he reached a clearing. The grass was green, ringed with oak and maple trees. Sunlight struck the surface of a small pond, fed by a winding creek that burbled softly along a line of bushes and undergrowth. She stood bent beside the pond, gasping for breath.

 

“You lose!” She grinned triumphantly, pointing at him with a grubby finger. “You owe me ten pence!”

 

            “I do not.” He, too, was wheezing, but he managed to not double over on the ground. He at least had that much control. “Be sensible. I owe you nothing: you never told me it was a race.”

 

            She glared back. “Well, what else was it going to be? You didn’t honestly think we were going to just merrily skip along, did you?” She smirked impishly. “Be sensible, Sherly.”

 

            Sherlock growled. He didn’t like that nickname. It was the name the idiot children in the schoolyard called him. Boring imbeciles who didn’t deserve any sort of familiarity with him. “It’s Sherlock, Amelia. And I wasn’t exactly implying skipping. It was more the running sort. Along, not racing.“

 

            Amelia beamed sweetly, her eyes wickedly sarcastic. “You’re no fun, Sherly.” She flounced over to him and grabbed his hand, sweaty palms rubbing over each other. “Gave you a bit of a chase, did I, Sherly?”

 

            He sighed, feeling the warmth of her hand in his. It would be of no use to continue correcting her impertinence. “A chase? No. A bit of a breather?” A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yes.”

 

            “Dream on, city boy,” she laughed, her big brown eyes twinkling.

 

            He paused, his grin frozen. “How did you know?” His eyes widened slightly as he peered at her.

 

            “The coat: expensive, that thing, if not a little short. For style, I’m guessing. The accent: somewhere about London. And, of course, the ridiculous way you carry yourself: more important than anyone else, Sherly?” Her hand left his and went to her hips, and she cocked her head. “Am I right?”

 

            “I do not -” he began before he was silenced by her look. “All right, all right,” he put up his hands as if in surrender. “Right as rain, Amelia Pond.”

 

            Her clear eyes clouded over for a moment, her spine curving inward ever so slightly, and she blinked hard several times before saying anything. “Well, Sherly, taken that breather, have you?” She reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. "Tag! You're it!" She darted off into the trees.

 

"Hey!" he cried out, hurrying after her.

 

"Catch me, Sherly!" she called from somewhere to his right, giggling.

 

* * *

 

Before they realised it, the sun had slipped below the horizon.

 

"Sherly!" She looked around, her hair swinging. “Sherly?"

 

The dark made her eyes fail her and she stumbled about, a hand outstretched to keep her from hitting a tree. It was Sherlock’s turn to hide, and he was always hard to find, even more so in the night.

 

            Leaves rustled behind her, and she turned, confident that she had found him. But she turned too quickly and tripped on a tree knot, leaving her ankle in pain and at a strange ankle. “Sherly!”

 

            His voice emerged from the treetops. “What, Amelia?” There was more swishing of the branches as he declared, “I’m not going to reveal myself. Find me yourself.”

 

            Moist-eyed, she called, “I can’t, you ninny!”

 

            There was a thud as a shadow dropped from a tree at the corner of her vision. It took her a moment to realise it was him. Sherlock strode over to her, his ridiculous curly hair flopping about and his unzipped coat fluttering.

 

“What is it?” he asked, crouching to examine the ankle she held. He turned it over as she groaned and described the pain.

 

“It hurts - a lot.” Amelia’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t think I fractured it or something, do you?” She stared straight at him. “Aunt Sharon will kill me. She hates it whenever I cause her trouble.”

 

            Sherlock put pressure on it and she yelped. “It’s not broken,” he continued as her glare dissipated and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Probably just twisted it. Put it up, let it heal for a while, and you should be fine.” Standing, he held out his hand. “Can you stand?”

 

            “Of course I can.” She stuck out her tongue as she pushed herself up off the ground. Balancing on her uninjured right leg, she gingerly put weight on her twisted ankle. “Augh.” Pain shot through her leg, debilitating her momentarily.

 

            He rushed to support her. “It’s OK. I’ll help you, alright?”

 

            Amelia looked up, her face contorted with the fire in her ankle. She looked as if she was about to refuse, but seemed to change her mind and nodded. “Just this once, OK?”

 

            He laughed. “Right, Amelia.” He bent a little as he looped her arm around his shoulder and his around hers. “Better?”

 

            “Definitely,” she replied with a smile.

 

            Together, they loped under the branches of the trees, who watched silently as they passed below. The rising full moon lit their path. He supported her as they trudged along, in a clumsy sort of three-legged race.

 

          

* * *

  When they approached her house, she motioned for him to stay behind. Sherlock nodded, taking up a post around the side the house. Women talked, and he didn’t want his name to spread around the village any more than it already had. All that aside, he was curious about her horrible aunt and how close she would be to really “killing her”.

 

            Light spilled out of the house as Amelia cracked open the door. He heard quick footsteps pounding toward the door. There was a brief moment of high-pitched jabber punctuated by a defiant silence. Then, the thunder of a hard slap. The falsetto tirade resumed, increasing in volume until the door was slammed shut.

 

He stood there for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. Whoever her aunt was, her bark might be bad, but her bite too was sharp. He stayed, his back pressed against the hard, algae-coated wall until he heard a window slide open. He turned toward the sound and retreated slowly and cautiously. A paper airplane flew out the window, fluttering around to land near his feet. He bent down to pick it up and could see the dark outline of rushed permanent marker. Opening it, he read. “Tomorrow? Don’t be late, Sherly.”

 

Backing away, he nodded, a sort of silent salute. A pale face illuminated by moonlight and framed with rays of fiery hair poked out of the window. Her lips twisted into a smile as he ran into the night.

 

Thus began the story of the girl who waited and the boy who waited longer.


End file.
